


Succulent

by RhetoricFemme



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, JeanMarco Gift Exchange, M/M, greenhouse au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 02:55:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13114488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhetoricFemme/pseuds/RhetoricFemme
Summary: When Jean Kirschstein inherits his family's greenhouse business in his early twenties, he doesn't hesitate to step up to the responsibility. Where he now figures that the rest of his life is set plainly out in front of him, everything changes with a chance encounter, and a series of meetings.





	Succulent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KayLingLing7](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KayLingLing7/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, Kaylee! I hope you enjoy your story as much as I loved writing it for you. <3

The air was wet and the sky grey for Jinae’s first farmer’s market of the year. Not that Jean minded. There seemed little wrong with not having to squint his way through what could have ended up an obnoxiously sunny morning.

No. The calm monochrome suited Jean just fine.

Crouched on the back of a pickup truck older than he was, Jean’s attention was on neither the weather, nor the pallets he’d been helping to load. Instead, his focus wandered with an unfamiliar face, who was currently engaging the staff at the front of Kirschstein Greenhouse’s well-loved market stall.

Broad chested and tall, with a headful of chestnut cowlicks, his smile was honest and bright.

There came a sudden meeting of their eyes, and with it a subtle change in the stranger’s smile that prompted Jean’s entire body to warm.

“Whatcha lookin’ at, Jeanbo?”

“Sasha! Dammit…” He watched, somewhat disappointed to see the man give a polite nod before heading back into the crowd.

Beside him, Sasha giggled and whispered dramatically. “ _Who is he?_ ”

“You.” Jean huffed. “Are a pain in my ass.”

“Mm.” She agreed. “Like a hemorrhoid that refuses to go away. Be careful. If you’d stared any harder at him I would’ve given you an injection myself.”

Grabbing either side of an empty pallet, they worked together to make room for unsold inventory.

“I am the last person on this planet in need of suppressants.” Jean grumbled. At twenty-five, he had no problem in telling the difference between taking a liking to someone, and involuntarily finding them attractive. But what was one without the other?

“Honestly Sash, it’s probably not gonna happen for me.” She frowned, though he cut her off before she could speak. “Not like you and Miki. And that’s okay. I’ve got enough going on. I might bitch and moan from time to time, but I’m actually pretty happy.”

“You bitch and moan because you’re a cranky old man with too high standards.”

“I am not old.” He spat back.

Jean rolled his eyes at her, taking the time to scan the market crowd one last time. The man was gone, Jean noticed, too distracted at this fact by itself to care whether or not he’d even bought anything.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Jean Kirschstein had always been too busy living his life to keep an eye out for love.

When a car accident took both of his parents away at the age of twenty-three, he became the sole proprietor of his family’s generations-old business. Within a heartbeat, Jean left his still young career as an accountant, deciding that there was no choice other than to take the helm of his family’s operation.

 _It’s alright_ , Jean reckoned. _No big deal._

Now twenty-five, he’s had nearly two years to get the hang of being nursery keep and business owner, though if anything had caught him by surprise it was how the quality of his day (his week… his month…) depended upon all of the little things.

Keeping the branch managers active and getting along in group meetings. Another weak crop to double-check on. One more special order to personally oversee until satisfactorily filled. He may have graduated with a degree in business, but he’d been raised growing things out of the ground since he was a child, and Jean would be damned if he handed any of the big tasks off to just anybody.

It was, after all, his father’s good name.

Jean spent most of his days walking the grounds of Kirschstein Greenhouse’s flagship nursery, while his evenings were spent deep inside the old farmhouse he’d grown up in—also inherited at the intimidating, world-laid-before-his-feet age of twenty-three. There were ghosts there, but they were well-loved. They were _his_ ghosts. Some nights it hurt like hell, but if nothing else, Jean would never want for a place to stay.

Jean is grateful for the quick paced bustle of his days, as it allows him the chance to forget that though his life is filled to the brim with people, he cannot remember a time when he had ever been this lonely.

At the very least, Sasha would always be there.

The saving grace of this entirely cruel, irreversible situation had been the unwavering support and timely sense of humor of his best friend. Jean already knows that decades from now, when the pain of loss has been relegated to a dull, nostalgic ache, he’ll always remember standing in his parents’ driveway the night after their funeral.

_Tea lights and tapered candles flickered beside hand-painted flowerpots, each piece delivered with grief and love, holding vigil on the front steps of the otherwise dark house._

_Jean looked the image of a ghost himself; pale and gaunt with morose that he’d managed to put off until he’d finalized the last of the ceremony’s details. He stood motionless now, Sasha’s much smaller hand encompassing Jean’s white-knuckled fist. He laid a silent kiss on the crown of her head, which was easy to reach from where it rested on his shoulder._

_“Guess this makes you Farmer Jean, now.”_

_He’d laughed heartily at that, sincere amusement from the center of his gut. It had been the first thing Jean had felt in a week that wasn’t akin to soul-wrenching sobs, or migraines brought on from dehydration._

_“Farmer Jean?” He repeated, his voice still raw. “I hate you.”_

_“One more night at our place, Jean.” Sasha whispered. He knew very well she wasn’t asking, but telling. “One more night, and tomorrow Miki and I will help with whatever you need.”_

_“Yeah.” Jean sniffled then, nodding. “One more night.”_

_Together, they took another moment to stare longingly up at the old brick farmhouse. Finally, with one shaky breath, Jean pulled his arm around her shoulders and turned them both around._

Nearly two years had gone by since then, and though Jean still felt a small twinge of pain every time he unlocked the door to his old farm house, he was also happy to feel that his was a life worth living. It was well worth the price of being lonely.

Planting roots in the small town that he’d grown up in, Jean knew every man and woman of age worth knowing, as well as some who unfortunately weren’t worth knowing. Jean knew them all well enough to know that his prospects at finding a man, much less a decent man, were woefully lacking.

It was no matter.

Jean had gotten to the point where concepts such as romance and relationships hardly even crossed his mind. In regards to that sporadic physical twang, those occasional pent up moments, Jean knew his own body and imagination well enough to address his own needs.

It was no matter. He had bigger things on his mind.

For instance, tomorrow would be the day Jean interviewed the final candidate for Kirschstein Greenhouse’s first ever manager of horticultural operations.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Out of all the prospective hires, Marco Bodt alone came at the recommendation of someone Jean was acquainted with personally. Petra Ral had come up alongside Jean’s parents in their industry, and knew their business almost as well he did. Unfortunately, Petra’s knowledge came with its limits, as she had spent the past decade teaching full time upstate.

“Oh, Jean.” She’d sighed into the phone. It was a sound as familiar as the way she was prone toward ruffling the hair atop his head. Jean smiled a little, almost able to feel it. “It breaks my heart that I’m not actually there, but listen.”

Marco Bodt had been among her favorite grad students in recent years. Smart and personable. Take-charge but polite, and roaming the whole damn city without anything better to do.

“He’s food science and horticulture, Jean. Waiting to hear back on a corporate offer that’ll make good use of his education. But if you’re serious about taking on someone to help manage all three locations? Give Marco a try.”

As it was, keeping his previous interviews had strictly been a formality; a way of doing this the smart way and covering his bases. Provided the guy didn’t end up being an epic dick (Jean already had one of those on staff), Petra’s word had been enough to sell him on the idea of Marco Bodt. All that was left to do was meet him, lay out KG’s needs, and hope he would want the job.

Marco had shown up fifteen minutes early for their interview. Of course he had, Jean mused. What he hadn’t anticipated was to find a familiar stranger waiting on him. Broad shoulders and a kind smile. Firm handshake and long fingers that trailed the length of Jean’s palm. An abundance of energy teeming inside whiskey eyes.

It hadn’t taken long to realize Marco may have been born a city boy, but that he was inexplicably drawn toward the country. Jean tried imagining Marco spending his days trekking green laboratories, concrete sidewalks and parking ramps. And, well. There was no use in denying his own personal or professional bias when Jean decided that Marco Bodt looked good here.

Jean smiled back, caging himself into the semblance of someone who knows how to at least appear professional. Internally he worked to douse the feeling that now bloomed deep in his belly; a fire he’d once presumed dead upon arrival.

Where formalities were concerned, their interview lasted all of twenty minutes. Marco had extended his hand before leaving more than an hour later. The moment he was certain Marco was out of the building, Jean made himself a doctor appointment.

 

~*~*~*~

 

“He was checking you out, Jean!”

He answers her by way of gathering a stack of official looking paperwork. The moment Sasha tries to reiterate her assessment is the same moment Jean taps the paper noisily against the desk. He denies her chastisements with the abrupt slam of the drawer closest to her.

“You’re afraid.” She accuses.

“Don’t you have work to do? Some Xena-in-the-woods type of thing?”

“Archery camp doesn’t start until next week. Don’t change the subject.”

“Scared is all fine and well, Jean.” Sasha stands to leave, her mouth twisted in conviction as she moves toward the door. “Just remember. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

It’s not that Jean is denying there had been a certain presence.  At the very least, he was content to be honest with himself.

“Marco got the position because he was the right candidate.” The words hardly seem to make sense anymore as they fall out of Jean's mouth. “I’m not about to risk anything over a chance to indulge in whatever.”

“Indulge.” Sasha scoffs from her place in the doorway. “Go on.”

Jean doesn’t bother looking up as he speaks. “Marco came here looking for a job, yeah? Well, he got one. That’s good enough.”

Sasha turned her face toward the ceiling, releasing a frustrated groan. “I’m leaving. Please. Call me when the day comes that something is better than just _good enough_. Cause we’re gonna celebrate.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Marco hires into Kirschstein Greenhouse at the start of April, accompanied by Jinae’s first true break from winter. The incarnation of blooms and fresh green raising out of the bark and the soil permeates the air with a much needed sense of renewal.

The idea is to keep the business small, and to entrust a reasonably large position to a single person. In essence, Marco is tasked with filling Jakob Kirschstein’s work boots. It’s an unfair assumption, and so Jean words himself honestly, but tactfully.

“Listen, man. This is a family operation.” Jean speaks as if his grandfather’s name hasn’t been on the shelves of every grocery store within a hundred mile radius for the last several decades. “I’ve been at it for two years, though, and I can’t keep doing it alone. So it’s more than a full-time job. You’d be looking at sixty-to-eighty hour weeks depending on the time of year. Easily.”

Marco had nodded in understanding, his eyes not leaving Jean’s once.

“It’s just me. I’ve got nothing else in my life right now.”

Jean laughs a little under his breath. “I believe Petra’s exact words were, ‘if he doesn’t get out of the city he’s going to start finding places for co-ops whether he lives near the neighborhood or not.’”

“Hey! That isn’t a half bad idea.” Marco’s grin is bright enough that Jean is certain it’ll sustain him for the rest of his day. “But to level with you, I’d love to work here. Do something that has some meaning. Longevity.”

By winter, Marco had proven he is worth his salt countless times over.

It would have been fair to think he could usurp greenhouse managers and the people working the floor by virtue of title and knowledge alone. However, Marco dismisses such behaviors in favor of getting to know the people working in each location. Gaining their favor by learning the breakdown of their jobs, the strengths and weaknesses of their greenhouses and local habits that kept them working with, as opposed to around one another.

Marco’s home base had decidedly been the flagship store. It had never been a question, really, considering that Jean was there. Marco had made himself busy learning the mechanics of the greenhouse’s methods of operation. From sowing to harvesting, to the individual needs of heirloom crops and the hybrids Kirschstein Greenhouse grew exclusively. Marco needed Jean, if for no other reason than to know the boundaries of the liberties he could take with the Kirschstein family’s crops and plants.

He’d told Jean as much late one December evening, while the two of them sat hunched over a map detailing the acreage of their Sina location. If anything had been made clear, it was that Marco had unabashedly earned the entirety of Jean’s trust over the past eight months.

“So, the bogs and ponds up in Sina.” Marco starts enthusiastically, crouching next to where Jean sat at his desk. Muffled Christmas music plays on the other side of the office door, which Jean had locked to give them some privacy. Without realizing it, he's leaned inward as Marco speaks, his freckled arm fully extended across the map. “All of this back here? It’s basically all untouched aquaculture.”

While Marco’s gaze remained fixed on the coordinates of unused property, Jean had begun to fixate on the interest Marco had invested into the task set before him. It was the same zeal he granted to anything he put effort into, and while most certainly a commendable trait, it had since become one of myriad things Jean admired about him.

“—that we can easily harvest. Water lilies and irises, reeds… Hell, you can harvest bog plants for a profit, Jean. Use that to expand if you want, or to further develop hybrids. What?”

“Nothing.” Jean replies with a shake of his head, his voice a meager whisper. He doesn’t mean for his eyes to wander toward the curve of Marco’s lips, though it seems too late to take any of that back now. “It’s just…”

Jean’s run out of words at this point, has nothing left to say. He chooses to show Marco, instead, and takes a kiss that had not been offered him. It’s of little matter, as Marco willingly obliges, spinning the office chair and situating a hand on either armrest. Leaning into Jean’s space, Marco tastes the side of his mouth before moving to part Jean’s lips. He shudders, inhales greedily as Jean unconsciously invites Marco closer to his neck.

Jean exerts no particular effort to steel his body for Marco. Caught up in this natural vigor, he relishes the fact that he’s able to elicit such a response despite more than half a year of injections. It’s a pivotal moment for Jean, his mind’s sense of logic as intact as his body’s inclination to keep Marco near.

_So it **is** him._

A small growl pulls through Marco’s chest, rises from his throat. It’s mere seconds before his teeth begin a slow graze of Jean’s neck, who answers in kind as his fingers twist nests and cowlicks out of Marco’s once neat hair.

Despite it all, there remains no easy answer to their attraction. It’s perhaps unreasonable to count on there ever being a right time, and something deeply innate runs through Jean’s heart.

The trepidation is palpable, and Jean moans quietly out of loss when the wheels of his chair give beneath Marco’s direction.

“I’m so sorry.” Marco catches the seat of the chair before it can go far, though he chooses to keep Jean at bay. There is no small amount of lust in his eyes as he watches the rise and fall of Jean’s chest, or the way he runs an agitated hand through his unkempt hair.

“I promise I won’t let this change anything.” Marco breathes heavily. One last inhale as sensibilities begin to wane and change.

“And if I want it to?”

Marco swallows hard as Jean continues to stare, watches as hazel eyes segue from calculated impulse to something akin to pain. By no means anything Marco is accustomed to, it’s enough to sober his yearning.

“Jean?”

“Not tonight, then.” Jean’s mouth twists up into an almost bitter smile, gently sending the chair across the room when he stands. Lust is abated though not forgotten, and it’s an altogether different touch when Jean grips Marco’s elbow. ”We’ll figure this out another time?”

“Another time.” Marco is resolute in both inflection and intention, and takes a deep breath as Jean unlocks the door. Holiday music and lighthearted banter wait on the other side of the threshold, which at this point might benefit both of them.

Jean lets Marco go first before relocking the office behind them. Somewhere in the middle of all of this, he’s decided to keep an upcoming doctor appointment. There’s no doubt as to where this is going, Jean knows. But there’s no reason to believe one more month of reflection would hurt, either.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Jean would like to imagine that he has no desire to acknowledge Marco outside of a professional setting. That the frustrating, yet refreshing flirtation they’ve been engaging in has actually involved someone other than the two of them. Jean has no doubts that were it someone else, the entire thing would be hilarious to watch.

Alas.

The way his skin tingles, and the jolt he takes to the heart whenever Marco is near is in no way of little consequence.

On the contrary, it has become everything.

A little more than a year has passed since Marco became an integral part of the Kirschstein Greenhouse family, and in the process he’s managed to win just about everybody over.

Just over a year since Jean caught sight of a remarkable stranger from the back of an old dirty pickup bed.

Jean unabashedly treasures Marco for the heart, knowledge and skill he’s brought to the company. But then, none of that holds water to the basic fact that without even trying, Marco has caused Jean to feel more alive than he can remember.

So much so that Jean has ceased to care that this feeling scares the hell out of him.

 

~*~*~*~

 

It was never Marco’s intention to test Jean’s faith in him. Further, Marco has spent the past year close to Jean’s side as a means of doing his job correctly, sufficiently, and to perform to the best of his ability.

At this point, the fact that he’s grown fonder of Jean than he has of his company’s mission statement is almost inconsequential to Marco. Or so Marco would like to tell himself. At any rate, it sounds better than acknowledging that working alongside Jean Kirschstein has proven an occupational hazard not only for his heart, but his libido.

But now, Marco questions the position he’s put not only himself, but another KG employee. A greenhouse manager, even. Not that Marlowe Freudenberg is anything close to Jean’s favorite employee—quite the opposite in fact. Marlowe is knowledgeable, but arrogant. Proud of his accomplishments, but petty where other people were concerned. That he’d managed to stay with the company this long was equal part testament the guy’s knowledge base, and his ability to walk a very thin line.

And if Marco turned out to be right, then Marlowe could also add novice saboteur to his repertoire.

The two of them stand facing each other now, Marco leveling Sina’s greenhouse manager with a sober gaze. For his own part, Marlowe stood at his full height, his features schooled with neutrality while listening to Marco’s theory.

“So, let me get this right.” Marco signals for Marlowe to keep from moving with a spatulate hand raised mid-air. “You what? Thought you might try your hand at creating your own hybrid? Use Susan Kirschstein’s model, and ruin her legacy in the process?”

Marlowe does no better than to stare impatiently at his accuser, who shows no sign of letting up any time soon. Marco’s gaze shoots between the man in front of him, and the now withering succulents that droop across the greenhouse counter.

Part of Susan’s contribution to her husband’s family business had been to care for difficult-to-breed succulents. Where others saw beauty overshadowed by a daunting level of care, Susan saw an opportunity to demonstrate love through patience. In time she’d come to develop her own hybrid of the Livingstone Daisy; a flower whose brilliance beget vibrancy and strength while in truth the flower was in fact quite delicate.

“Maybe I’m the one I should be angry at.” Marco continues, running one hand across the wilted petals of a plant that had been perfectly healthy just last week. “I noticed a while back there’d been cuttings on the daisies. I assumed it was Jean, since, you know. These are _his_ plants, and no one else would be authorized to take cuttings other than him.”

Marco palms the plant sympathetically while turning his gaze back toward Marlowe.

“You’re lucky I think I can fix this.” Marco says beneath his breath. “You should leave for now, though. And I wouldn’t bother coming back in until you’re asked for by Jean.”  
  
“Sure.” Marlowe lets go of the breath he’d been holding, looking past Marco’s shoulder as he swipes hastily for his coat. “Jean’s been standing in the doorway this entire time, by the way.”  
  
Panic rises in Marco’s chest as he pivots toward the front of the greenhouse, and there Jean is. Arms wrapped angrily across his chest and biting down on his lip, it’s only when he throws Marco a nod he’s able to fully acknowledge the controlled rage flickering in Jean’s eyes.

“ _Marlowe_. I’ll meet with you later this week, but it won’t be for work.” Jean’s voice comes low, his words carefully chosen, his inflection measured. “You can wait for me to call you.”

Neither of them speak until Marlowe is out of earshot, well after he’s shown himself out with a sudden sense of immediacy. A moment passes by, the space between them loaded while Jean carefully looks over Marco.

He scrutinizes the condition of his mother’s plants; once brilliant and unable to be ignored, their petals had gone from teals and fuscias to only the palest visage of pinks and blues. Jean finds himself unable to look away from the worst of the damage, where stems had fallen limp and petals were near sepia.

Marco readies himself for Jean’s ire. He’s dropped the ball where it counted most, shames himself against all logic that he couldn’t be in several places at once, knows Jean will detail his disappointment in Marco next.

Jean opens his mouth to speak, and it is everything Marco can do not to ask him to repeat the cotton-soft words that fall off his tongue.  
  
“Can you?” Jean’s voice trembles. “Can you actually fix them?”

Marco nods confidently, though he finds trouble feeling anything other than beaten and sullen.

“I’m so sorry, Jean.” Rare is the occasion where Marco feels compelled to so thoroughly explain himself to anyone. Now he finds himself stopping just short of pleading his case to Jean. “I didn’t want to say anything until I knew for sure.”

Marco’s words are rushed. He believes in what he’s saying but doubts the merit of his authority on the situation. “I should’ve noticed sooner than yesterday that something wasn’t adding up. Marlowe’s not lazy, and he’s no idiot and in comparison to the rest of the flowers and crops, negligence just didn’t make sense. I spent the night looking over all of the plants, checking the logs, and that’s when I kne—“

“Thank you.”

Marco freezes, dumbfounded by Jean’s appreciation. “You’re… thanking me?”

Jean smiles a little then, hastily wipes a tear from one eye. Were he facing anyone else, he likely would’ve waxed aggressive rather than allow someone see him like this. “My mother worked her _ass_ off on this line. We’ve always treated everyone here with respect, and we’ve never received anything less back. There was no reason to think otherwise.”

Without taking his eyes off of Marco, Jean closes the space between them, grabbing hold of one hand that lays defeated and crushed at Marco’s side. Jean raises it closer, studying the smattering of freckles across that back of Marco’s palm, and nods.

“’But you still found it. I drove up here after you called yesterday saying you wouldn’t be back ‘til later today. Didn’t make sense, so long as everything had been alright…” Jean brings Marco’s knuckles near, inhaling gently until he finds what he’s looking for. He watches, pleased with the way Marco’s eyes dilate in response to his scent. There’s nowhere left to go where their scents haven’t mingled. Very few spaces either of them can traipse that won’t remind one man of the other.

Within moments the air is heady and full of them, so much so that Jean shows no reservation when he runs the inside of Marco’s wrist across one heated cheek. “ _You_ did something about it. So thank you.”

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Marco watches Jean’s every move. Stills the surge of lust and impulse building in his chest and allots Jean every last iota of his attention. He listens as Jean lets go of strong fingers and hangs his head.

“I’m so tired, Marco.” Jean laughs bitterly toward the ground. “Seriously, man. Just… Fuck people like Marlowe, and fuck all of these false pretenses. And to hell with suppressants.”

Marco shudders at the mere thought. “Well. What would you suggest?”

It’s the most voracious of loaded questions, and both of them know it. Even so, neither man makes any move to back away from the other, or the implications that come with addressing such a question.

“I lost everyone once already.” Jean trembles, laying the crux of himself out for Marco to consider. “And I sure as hell don’t want to do it again.”

“You’re not going to lose me.” He promises. “Unless you tell me to go? You’re not going to lose me.”

Jean shakes his head resolutely at this. “I don’t want you to go.”

Slowly, Marco brings his arms around the back of Jean's waist, encloses them into the same small space until they are at once blissfully and painfully near.

They're safe for now, concealed behind the locked office door at the end of another day. Jean wastes no time in indulging both of them when he guides Marco’s hand beneath his waistband. He sighs then, succumbing to all of the promise and prospect he’s spent so much time trying to avoid. Unapologetic pleasure spikes through Jean’s body as eager fingers mold to the curve of his ass, where they find unabashed proof of Jean’s arousal.

Marco mouths at him, expectant teeth running from collar bone to nape while rubbing Jean's slick between his fingers. He stops only for a moment, marking and soothing the pulse of Jean’s neck.

"Sawdust." Marco whispers. "That's all I could smell on your skin the first time I saw you."

He presses Jean against the back of a weathered potting bench, bringing both of his hands on either side of Jean's head as he angles his face upward. "I just wanted to see the sort of people I could end up working with."

Facts laced with lust and love that have been held at bay for too long. "And of course _you_ were there. Working as hard as the rest of your crew, working among them and something in your eyes looked so lost, but you were still their leader."

Jean wants to touch him. To smash Marco's hips against his own until he leaves them no choice but to get on with it, but no. Jean would much rather learn where Marco's natural disposition lies. To be both cause and effect for Marco to lay teeth and hands where he pleases.

“You were even better once we met properly.” Marco’s other hand moves to grab whats left of Jean’s ass. “Not sure I would’ve left Jinae even if you’d hired someone else.”

“Mm. Is there anything you’re _not_ qualified for?” Jean’s laughter is cut off at the chance to take in the entirety of Marco’s scent now, feels his cock swell at the intoxication of everything that is them.

“But you did hire me. And I stopped smelling you soon after.” Dominant hips crush into Jean’s. Marco is unrelenting in his force until he ends up the one who shudders. “It made sense. It was a respectable sacrifice, but you should know ngh—“

Jean smiles maliciously and gives another tug of Marco’s cowlicks and curls. “You knew?”

“Hell yeah.” Marco returns the smile before taking Jean’s lips between his own. “I knew what you were that day at the farmers market without even coming near you.”

Moments pass, and words fall to the wayside. Marco’s taste is as persuasive as his smell, his bite as able to soothe as incite a blood-roiling reaction in Jean. They move against one another until all that’s left is for one to move with the other.

“You should know.” Marco is raw lips and ruddy cheeks when his sighs against Jean’s mouth. “I would have waited for you.”

Jean's body practically moves of its own volition when he spreads his thighs just so, and it's all the encouragement Marco needs.

He wastes no time dropping to his knees, pulling Jean's pants down as he goes. A mutual shudder passes between them as Marco noses at Jean reverently, gently cupping his balls as he licks Jean from the base to the tip of his shaft.

“Marco… I need… I... Marc-- _ngh!!_ "

Without warning, Marco's teeth impress on the inside of one thigh, using his tongue to soothe the red spot before pulling Jean's pants up again. He stands, pulling Jean close enough that his mouth rests against Jean's ear.

"Shop doesn't close for another hour." Marco mewls. "This way, you can get an idea of how it's felt the last several months to be me."

Jean's vision hazes over as Marco leaves a devastatingly sweet kiss against one cheek. He watches as Kirschstein Greenhouse’s manager of horticultural operations straightens his hair and clothes before heading into the main part of the store. Jean hears him after a while, that cheery and intelligent voice asking a guest if they’re finding everything to their satisfaction.

Joy surges from somewhere deep inside Jean’s gut, and he can’t help but laugh.

“ _Now_ what am I going to do?”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Summer can be notoriously hot in Jinae, to the point that local business often keep cold treats and drinks at hand.

It’s a tradition that’s alive and well at Kirschstein Greenhouse, as can be seen when its young owner replenishes bottles of water, carafes of lemonade, and chilled cucumber slices for his patrons.

Jean is busy arranging the courtesy table when a familiar pair of hands takes hold of his hips from behind.

“Heat getting to you, Marco?”

A discreet kiss is laid at the base of his neck and Marco laughs. “If that’s your effort at tacky puns, then bravo, sir. You’ve done it.”

Marco pulls at Jean then, gently taking a bottle of water from his hand and setting it with the rest.

“C’mere. I have something to show you.”

“Yeah?” Jean’s interest is piqued, and he turns to face Marco with curiosity. “What?”

“Mm. It’s better to show, not just tell.” Marco’s tongue peeks out of the corner of his mouth as he smiles in excitement.

Within seconds Jean finds himself being led by the hand toward the greenhouses. There is conviction and vigor to Marco's step, and for the life of him Jean cannot figure out what this is all about.

“Marco, dude. Did you invent a plant person? Because anything less than that, and I don’t know what could be so— _mmph_.”

They stop just short of the smallest greenhouse on the property, the one whose door declares is for employees only, when Marco pivots until his lips meet Jean’s.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” The words come out a soft drawl as Jean returns the kiss.

“It’s taken longer than I thought.” Marco explains between endearing slips of the tongue. “But I can finally show you this.”

“This…” Jean’s head tilts to the side, and he waits patiently as Marco unlocks the greenhouse door. He grabs Jean by the hand then, pulling him inside. It isn’t until they reach the back of the greenhouse that Marco’s secret bursts into view.

“Oh shit!” Jean stops in his tracks, and for a moment the air rushes out of his chest. “Marco, you were able to do it?”

Warm arms envelop Jean from behind, and he can feel Marco smiling into his neck. He smells of sex and sweat, top soil and the July sun. “I was able to do it.”

Sitting at the back of the greenhouse are Susan Kirschstein’s Livingstone Daises, returned to their former glory. It’s as if they’d never stood at the edge of greed and death, and had in fact doubled their numbers.

Marco allows Jean to take the scene in, delights in the way that Jean stares at the flowers incredulously. He neglects to mention how he’d personally approached Marlowe for every one of the cuttings he’d stolen from the plants before nurturing them into healthy blooms, himself.

“The small ones are a little different.” Marco says quietly. “A new hybrid. You should name them.”

Turning around, Jean lays his forehead at the crook of Marco's neck, delighted and overwhelmed at everything that stands in front of him. Gentle hands rub across his back as Jean leans deeper into Marco’s chest, and damn it the world these days just feels right.

It had taken patience and time. A semblance of self-control and a little faith that everything would always be just fine.

And with it, Jean was being rewarded with the satisfaction of memory, and a future that would be the opposite of loneliness.

 


End file.
